


Hazy New York

by out_there



Category: St Elmo's Fire, West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-18
Updated: 2004-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't see much of the guy's face behind the long dark fringe, just a vague impression of a wide jaw and an easy smile. But the hand on his shoulder squeezed, and Sam knew what was being offered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hazy New York

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://warlordkittens.livejournal.com/profile)[**warlordkittens**](http://warlordkittens.livejournal.com/)'s challenge, [The Night of Hot Gay Crossover Sex](http://www.livejournal.com/users/bananasrock/352343.html). Thanks to [](http://ahab99.livejournal.com/profile)[**ahab99**](http://ahab99.livejournal.com/) for betaing, and helping with currency conversions. Set after the S3 finale, Posse Comitatus.

The club was hazy, filled with smoke and the sounds of forced laughter and false cheer. The saxophone bled a low bluesy tune, and Sam ordered another scotch with a nod of his head.

He lifted the glass, and through the amber liquid he could see his reflection behind the bar. His sight was tinted yellow and the metaphorical golden boy in the mirror smiled drunkenly, white teeth bared, as straight as orthodontics and teenage braces could make them.

His reflection sneered at the self-indulgent thoughts, and Sam emptied the glass in a quick swallow, loving the way it burned his throat, the way it fought off the chill of bad news.

"Hey."

Sam shook his head, but didn't look up. No one here knew him, or no one should, so he wasn't under any obligation to be sweet, to be polite, to be civil. He was just here to get drunk, and get a plane home in the morning.

He nodded for another shot, and a warm handed landed on his. "Hey, I think you've already had enough."

"I haven't had anywhere near enough." His voice slurred and the words felt blurry on his tongue. But his head felt clear, still clear enough to remember CJ's blood-shot eyes, still clear enough to remember Toby's profile as he turned away from the news. If he thought about it, he could picture the cold calm of the President's face. He hadn't drunk anywhere near enough.

"They won't serve you any more," the guy pointed out reasonably, and Sam tilted his head to the side. He didn't turn his head, didn't look over at him, didn't want to see him. But from the corner of his eye, Sam saw the brassy finish of a saxophone, and figured it was the player.

"Nice playing," he said. It was. Nice, slow, painful notes that made Sam want to curl up into his glass, that made him want to tape it and send it to Josh. Tape it so he could tell Josh that it was what heartbreak should sound like; not CJ's muffled sobs and not Josh's quiet voice over the phone. (It shouldn't break people in half.) It should sound like this. You should be able to turn it off.

The guy beside him shifted, moving on his feet, hiding the instrument out of sight. "Thanks."

Sam felt sharp and cruel. "Why are you here?" He wanted to think of himself as a sword, as a blade, deadly and cutting, but he really felt like a pen. Enough to hurt, but never enough to draw blood.

"You're drunk." Sam heard the smile in the guy's voice and it made him bristle, made him want to growl or curse, made him want to order another drink.

He settled for a growl. "And?"

He shifted again, and Sam turned to look at the kid. His face was a mass of unruly dark hair, and his clothes were... oddly bohemian. They looked good, layers against the cold. Trendy, well-worn, well-fitted. "You don't look like you belong here."

Sam barked out a harsh laugh that almost hurt his throat. "I used to." It was close enough to the truth, a small white lie. He used to live in New York, but he hadn't belonged. He didn't belong there any more than he belonged in California as a kid, or Washington as an adult. Maybe he just didn't belong anywhere.

"Let me call you a cab." The guy's hand was warm against his shoulder and Sam couldn't remember where he left his jacket. He knew he changed into an everyday suit, into a shirt and jacket, no tie. But that was after the news, after they decided to stay here for a night and he couldn't even remember who decided that they should stay.

In fact, he doesn't remember *where* they decided he should stay. "I don't know where I'm staying," he whined helplessly, and in the mirror his reflection pouted back at him.

The guy shrugged, and the layers of dark clothes moved with him. "You can stay with me." He couldn't see much of the guy's face behind the long dark fringe, just a vague impression of a wide jaw and an easy smile. But the hand on his shoulder squeezed, and Sam knew what was being offered.

Knew what he was accepting.

He nodded, and pushed away from the bar, laughing as the world decided to tilt. The stranger wrapped an arm around him, just the right height to steady him, and led him out to an old car.

Sam sniggered as he sat down. "My car's better than this."

"I'm sure it is." The guy looked at him, and ran a firm hand up Sam's thigh. Sam wasn't wrong about this. At least, he wasn't wrong about the details. He refused to worry about the overall picture right now.

He stared out the window as the guy drove and closed his eyes as an ambulance passed by, red lights signaling blood and loss and other things that he should be too drunk to remember. "I saw Shakespeare tonight."

In the gleam of the passing streetlights, Sam saw the amused smirk. "In person?"

He laughed, imagining that, imagining meeting someone who could rewrite the English language into his own image. "No, one of his plays."

"Which one?" The conversation was meaningless, and rambled, but Sam liked the way this stranger indulged him. Liked the way the bright streetlights kept casting him in shadow and bathing him in light, occasionally revealing the glint of a silver stud in his ear.

Sam shook his head, too drunk to remember precisely. "One of the Henry's. I think."

"Ah. All blood and battles and trying to get the crown," the guy said, mock-seriously, sounding like a newscaster, as if blood and pain was something to be mentioned, not something to be mourned.

"No. All fighting and scheming, trying to keep control." Sam was about to say something else, was about to say it was just like his life, just like modern-day politics. All about out-thinking the opponent and trying not to feel.

"Well, politics is politics, right?" The indicator light blinked with a tiny swishing itch of a sound. The car turned around the corner, and the guy's words bounced off its upholstery. "Hasn't changed too much over time."

"No," Sam said, and felt like he was betraying everyone he knew, betraying them with truth that they couldn't see. All except for Toby with his sarcasm, wearing his loss of political faith like a medal of honor. The stranger didn't speak again and Sam was glad for it. Not glad to be stuck amongst his own thoughts, but glad not to have to say them aloud. To keep them quiet and treacherous, easily denied.

He huddled against the cold of the car and the guy looked over at him, shrugging. "Sorry. Heater's broken." The guy shook his hair out of his eyes, but it flopped back down into the same haphazard style.

"That's okay." Sam stared at the green traffic light as they passed underneath it. "I wanted to tape your playing," he said, apropos of nothing.

"I'd rather you didn't." The guy pulled into the curb, in front of an old apartment building. Sam thought it was probably older than both of them combined. "I have CDs, if you want one."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I have a friend who'd like it." It wasn't precisely true. Sam actually wasn't sure if Josh would like it, if CJ would want to hear it. But Donna probably would, so he could share it with her. "Can I get a couple?"

The guy grinned, a sudden bright smile beneath that unkempt hairstyle. "Sure." He leaned over to the back seat, and Sam let his eyes travel over the stretch of his torso. Then the guy sat back, shoving a couple of CD covers into Sam's hands. "Here."

"Thanks," he said softly, turning the muted colors over in his hands. It wasn't a big gift, not enough to change the world, but it touched Sam more than it should. He couldn't remember the last time someone gave him something without being obligated to, without asking for a favor in return. He hadn't worn his reading glasses, so he blinked at the text, squinting at it until it became clear. "Billy?"

The guy chuckled, a low, sweet sound that made Sam think of treacle and dark chocolate. "It's my name." Sam nodded and the guy, Billy, led him upstairs. The stairway was dark and angular, and twisted wildly beneath his feet. He gripped onto the railing tightly and pulled himself up, not willing to ask for help. By the time he got to the top, Billy had the door open and the light on.

Billy stood in the kitchen, a tiny enclave off the small living room. Dark and dingy, the furniture was a mishmash of different styles. It could have been worse. It could have been a one-room apartment. "Do you want a coffee?"

"No." Under the bright kitchen light, Billy's clothes looked less bohemian, and more faddish. It wasn't the type of clothing Sam had ever worn. Even his casual clothes, even in college, had been conservative quality. Quality cuts, quality fabrics. They were the type of clothes that would look good in five years time, if looked after right. Billy's clothes looked cheap and easily replaced.

Billy peeled off his thick coat and hung it up in a tiny closet Sam hadn't even noticed. "Okay." Billy seemed uncomfortable, and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face, showing Sam a quick flash of striking blue eyes.

It also showed Sam his face. People said a face had character, that you could read a person's life in their features. Sam could read a lot of nights spent at smoky bars, a lot of drinking and not enough good meals in the sallow tan. There were bags under his eyes, screaming that Billy didn't get enough sleep for his own good, and now that Sam looked closely, he could faint laughter lines along the guy's cheeks.

He'd judged the book by its cover, taken a quick look at the cheap-chic clothes and the shaggy haircut, and assumed the guy must have barely been out of college, mid-twenties at the latest. The guy looked twice that age, but he also looked like he'd sucked the fun out of every late night, that he'd lived hard, so he probably wasn't even forty. The strong jaw line, and the somewhat gaunt cheekbones were still there, and Sam saw that Billy would have been stunning when he was younger.

Sam guessed he should have been disappointed, but he was mellow enough from the alcohol not to care. He didn't really want some young kid. He just… He'd rather have someone who knew what they were doing. He liked the way that Billy tilted his head, narrowing his eyes behind that curtain of hair, and simply asked, "Bedroom?"

"Yeah," Sam said, his fingers already working on his shirt buttons. He followed Billy through to the dark bedroom and didn't ask him to turn on the light. Billy ran a hand lightly over his arm, and pulled him closer. He stepped forward gingerly, equally wary of the scotch and any unknown furniture.

The guy ran a cold palm down Sam's bare chest, his fingers splaying over Sam ribcage, just resting there. Sam stepped forward another half-step, reached up and tangled his hand in that too-long hair. He pulled Billy down roughly, tugging at his hair harshly, and kissed him. There was no finesse there, and he felt his teeth jar against Billy's, but going any slower would kill him tonight.

Exploring Billy's mouth was like arguing, quick tongues and harsh breathing, his heart pounding as he tried to keep up, tried to keep one step ahead. Billy's hands were on his skin, questioning and clutching at him, holding him closer as he squirmed and arched.

Billy kept kissing him, strong hands and wet tongue, and started walking him backwards, pushing and shoving at Sam until he fell back on the bed. Breathing hard, Sam wasted no time. He pulled at his belt and unhooked it, then undid his pants, pulling both them and his underwear down as he toed off his shoes. Sitting up, he pulled them off his legs and shrugged out of his shirt, throwing it to the far side of the room.

For his part, Billy had pulled off the layers of tops, an open shirt, a turtleneck, and something in between. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Sam could make out Billy's thin silhouette, somehow more delicate, more insubstantial, without the dark material. But as Billy leaned over him, sucking and biting at his stomach, Sam really didn't care.

Billy's hands were on his legs, spreading his thighs, and Sam was happy to oblige. Sam lay back, one hand behind his head, and the other twisting in Billy's hair as Billy licked lower, tracing that fold between hip and thigh. Sam grunted, lifting his hips, and Billy got the hint. He didn't mess around, didn't bother teasing with light kisses and gentle licks. He just wrapped his lips around Sam's cock and took it, sucking down and then pulling back up to do it again.

Sam didn't even try to stop his hips snapping up, following that wet, warm mouth. He didn't worry about how hard his fingers were clawing into Billy's scalp. He just concentrated on the feel of Billy's lips stretched tight around him, on Billy's tongue rubbing gently against the sensitive underside of his cock. Billy didn't complain. Instead, Billy followed Sam's hands and swallowed him deeper, letting him fuck his mouth in a rhythm that must have been uncomfortable.

Sam stretched out on the bed, back arching as Billy spread his legs apart further, and pushed a finger inside him. He groaned as Billy twisted up, and pressed hard enough to make Sam yell. Breathing hard, hips pumping, Sam could feel the soft bedspread shift under his back as his squirmed, trying to press down on Billy's hand and push up into Billy's mouth all at once.

The sounds seemed to echo in the room, the rustle of his hair against the material beneath him, the wet slurps coming from Billy, his own gasps for breath. He could hear his half-swallowed grunts, the whimpers caught in the back of his throat. The mindless whine when Billy pulled his finger out and the strangled groan when Billy pushed two back in. Impaling him with calloused fingers, rough, and just a little too dry. Hard and insisting and. Good.

So. Fucking. *Good*.

Sam twisted up with an incoherent shout, tense and shuddering and clinging to Billy as he came. He stayed bent over Billy as Billy swallowed, wringing those last feeble thrusts from him.

Panting, Sam collapsed back on the bed, arms and legs spread wide. His knees were still hooked over the edge of the bed, feet resting on the floor. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it off his face and kept his eyes closed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the cold air against damp skin. And the bone-deep lethargy that made him never want to move again.

Then, Billy's hand was back on his hip, curling under his thigh, and lifting his leg up over Billy's shoulder. Billy's fingers were pressing inside him again, slick this time. It was good but still a little too soon and Sam moaned, shaking his head that he really didn't need the lube. Billy turned his head and pressed a moist kiss against his knee, and then leaned up on the bed, just *pushing* inside, steady and too damn slow.

"Faster," Sam managed to grind out between clenched teeth, and Billy didn't need to be told twice. He started thrusting harder, quicker. The stretch hurt, and all Sam could do was lie back and take it. His fingers twisted in the bedspread, straining against it as Billy's hands grasped Sam's hips, holding Sam steady as he thrust harder, impossibly deeper. Sam was groaning and already half-hard, tossing his head against the mattress. God, he was going to feel this tomorrow. He might be feeling this all week; the thought made his cock twitch.

Through narrowed eyelashes, he could see Billy had thrown his head back and the long line of his neck gleamed as his thrusts became more erratic, as he fought to keep the rhythm. Then Billy's hand gripped Sam's cock, and he started to jerk him off roughly. Sam scrunched his eyes up, biting at his lip. It was too soon, he was too sensitive. It fucking hurt, and it made him squirm and beg for more, for anything. He was so close he could almost feel it, his entire body straining against Billy's hands, against Billy's cock.

Billy was fucking him wildly, without anything near control, grunting as he thrust in a ragged rhythm. Billy's hand was moving faster, tugging harshly on Sam's cock, then suddenly squeezing as Billy came, and it was all too much. Sam surged up and came, erupting against Billy's chest, eyes closed tight.

Afterwards, he lay there for a few minutes, luxuriating in the warm weight of Billy lying against him. It was quiet and comforting, and he wanted to stay like this, just two bodies and two sets of breaths echoing in the silence. Of course, he knew that wasn't possible.

He had a plane to catch and friends to meet. They still had to worry about Ritchie fighting back, and if CJ could handle the press tomorrow. Plus, there was that speech draft that he and Toby needed to completely rewrite. He was already mentally cataloguing what he needed to do, and who he needed to contact first, and whether or not he should call CJ, or leave it until the morning, if she'd even wanted to talk, when Billy moaned sleepily and shifted against him.

He pulled back gently, and softly traced his thumb under Sam's eye. "Are you okay?"

Sam raised a hand to face and realized it was wet. It was odd. He couldn't remember crying. "Yeah, I'm..." he started, and then trailed off as he throat closed up. He tried to clear his throat, to push the words out, and instead his eyes watered embarrassingly. He swallowed back the emotion, and pasted a smile on his face, nodding tensely at Billy.

Billy rolled off him, and then trailed a hand down his shoulder, and pressed the softest kiss against Sam's lips. Sam was mortified by the tight sob that he made, and would have gotten dressed there and then, but Billy wrapped his arms around him and pulled Sam against him. For a slim guy he was strong, and Sam was struggling against the embrace, but he was struggling against himself more, blinking back tears that shouldn't have been threatening.

"Hey, hey," Billy muttered soothingly into Sam's hair, and Sam wanted to push him away, to say this wasn't him; he wasn't hurt by this, he was angry about it. It shouldn't have happened, it should never have happened, and it was happening too damn often. People he knew kept getting shot, and hurt, and killed, and he couldn't do anything about it.

He felt selfish and needy, clinging on to Billy's shoulders for dear life, trying to swallow back tears because this wasn't his sorrow. This time, it wasn't someone he knew, it wasn't someone he loved, and this wasn't about *him*.

And even when it had been, even when it had been *his* best friend, *his* loved someone, it hadn't been like this. He'd been terrified and angry, and had nightmares about bloody shirts and missed meetings. It had been cold and hard, this furious energy that made words flow rapidly from his pen, made his mind sharper in interviews, and kept him typing on his laptop until midnight.

But right now, he was shuddering and gulping, lying in a stranger's arms, and unsuccessfully trying to muffle sobs that made his insides hitch, that made his chest burn. This wasn't how it should be. He should be furious. But there was a hand cradling the nape of his neck and Sam didn't have the energy to angry anymore. Warm fingertips stroked his back and a soft voice crooned in his ear, "Hey, it's okay. It'll be okay."

Billy didn't tell him to let it out, didn't ask him what was wrong. He just held him until Sam stopped shuddering, until the choked sobs subsided, until he wasn't angry or hurt, he was just anesthetized and tired.

Sam didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up with a headache and recalled the name of his hotel. Stealing out of bed, he pulled his clothes on in the kitchen and called directory assistance, scribbling down the number for a cab.

Peeling a pair of twenties out his wallet, he placed them on the bench and wrote a note saying, "For the CDs." After a moment, he took out his pen again and added, "Thanks."

He called a cab on his way downstairs, looking at the uncollected mail sitting on top of the letterboxes for the address. Stepping outside with the CDs in one hand, he squinted in the predawn haze, and crossed his arms against the early morning chill.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or on [Livejournal](http://community.livejournal.com/inthetallgrass/56947.html?mode=reply).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Breaking Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205452) by [dontchasethesheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontchasethesheep/pseuds/dontchasethesheep)




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